


Not Even Dating (But Everyone's Worse)

by andthebluestblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU of an AU, Explicit Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Tussling, mention of vaginal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 04:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20168539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthebluestblue/pseuds/andthebluestblue
Summary: Have you read Shayaalski and I's Mark universe (in which Molly is a trans man named Mark) and thought, "Okay, but what if Sebastian was 40% more of a tool, Mark had a much shorter temper, and there was a lot more pushing around (but the consent remained very explicit)"?Apparently five years ago I did! And wrote this, and saved it under "The Darkest Timeline" (which is ironic, because it is by no means the darkest AU of this universe, Ask Me About My Noncon), and then found it last week while I was trying to check if we'd started the next piece of this series.This is an AU of an AU; Shayvaalski had no hand in writing it (other than vigorous encouragement and beta-related assistance) and it doesn't affect the canon of the Mark series.As mentioned above, this is a worse Sebastian, so if troubling rhetoric about trans bodies troubles you, proceed with caution.





	Not Even Dating (But Everyone's Worse)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Not Even Dating](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416988) by [andthebluestblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthebluestblue/pseuds/andthebluestblue), [Shayvaalski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/pseuds/Shayvaalski). 

Sebastian has not felt this ungainly since Jim first laughed and loosened his tie, licked his lips and said "That was an  _ offer _ , tiger." 

Sometimes Sebastian suspects that Jim's plan was less about keeping Mark safe—and by extension Jim and his empire—and more about seeing how far he could push Sebastian, again. He'd suspect it a little more if it weren't for the hit man he'd shot down on the roof across from Bart's the morning of their third date. Not that there had been any more—Seb had sent some very clear messages, and Jim had been carefully disinterested. The word went out:  _ Don't bother; Moriarty doesn't give a damn and his pet sniper has laid claim. _ Too much risk for a hostage that might not even be useful, just like Jim planned. Damn him.

He's never sure how much Jim knows—everything, he usually assumes, because it saves time. He certainly monitored every date they had, the piece in Seb's ear hissing "put your  _ arm _ around him, Sebby, he's obviously cold, are you  _ new _ at this." He doesn't know if Mark had a similar earpiece; probably not, from the startled look Mark gives him. And Mark, for all his soft hands and big eyes and general air of I-am-just-a-baby-deer-please-don't-shoot-my-mother, has laid down the law with Jim in some very specific ways regarding privacy and autonomy and Seb is not entirely sure he approves of someone who can control Moriarty this way.

But it had gone "acceptably," Jim said later, upside-down on the couch, boneless in pajama bottoms. "Not  _ well _ , Sebby, you're rather shit at this. I'm shocked you ever managed to get off with anyone without my help, people have abysmal taste. I rather think Mark would have dumped you at least a week ago, if not for me—you know, after the yoghurt."

Sebastian grits his teeth, and doesn't say anything—he especially does not point out that he would not  _ be _ dating Mark (if you can call it that) without Jim, and his stupid plan.

Mark draws much firmer lines than Seb does, and much sooner. But even Sebastian has limits, he discovers, after their fifth date (ice skating, because Jim had apparently sat down and watched every romantic comedy he could get his hands on), when Mark is cleaning Seb's scraped-raw shoulder. He's making small annoyed noises every time Seb shifts and he clearly needs a haircut, and Jim is silent in his ear for once (apparently recovering from his hysterical laughter when Seb fell). Mark turns to reach for the gauze just as Seb cranes his neck to see the wound, and there is a long, fragile pause where they are not anywhere near touching but they could be. It's stupid and cliche and Seb thinks later Jim may have set up the whole thing, somehow, rearranged Mark's bathroom and salted the ice, and for that long moment he  _ wants _ to move his head just far enough to be an offer, and Mark is very clearly not breathing, going slightly pink.

"Go on, kiss him" Jim whispers in Seb's ear, and that is  _ it _ . This cannot possibly be a security issue, they are alone in a windowless room and no one is watching except for Jim and  _ Seb has had enough _ . He swears, loudly, and shoves Mark away, grabs his shirt and heads for the door. Jim is screeching in his ear, and he yanks it out, leaving it in the front hall. Let Mark listen to him.

He's about twenty minutes out before he realizes that he left his wallet at Mark's flat. He hesitates, long pause in the middle of the freezing near-empty street, but finally decides to go back for it. He's not  _ scared _ of Mark, after all, he isn't afraid to face him or embarrassed or some bullshit like that. He definitely has no memory of Mark's face right before he shoved him, confused and shattered and still just an edge of hope. And even if he did, it wouldn't make a difference—he's not playing this game with Jim. Even if Mark  _ is _ in on it.

He can hear Mark coming as soon as he knocks on the door, and just as clearly can hear him stand on the other side and pause for a few seconds, so that it doesn't look like he was waiting. Someone needs to give that boy a lesson in deception, and it would be pitiful if it weren't so endearing. Sebastian is starting to regret this.

Mark opens the door and looks up at him with what he probably thinks is disdain but actually looks a bit like fear and a bit like he's got something stuck to the roof of his mouth. He has Not Been Crying, very pointedly, and Sebastian remembers two months ago, when he didn't think with Mark's emphatic capitals. The earpiece is gone, and there are some signs of disturbance in what Sebastian can see of the flat—less like Mark was throwing a tantrum and more like a very fast, violent search. Sebastian doesn't know where all of the cameras in Mark's flat are located, and he's pretty sure Mark doesn't either—but it looks like Mark made a hell of an effort to find out.

"What." Mark finally snaps, and then, as soon as Sebastian opens his mouth, "You can't have it back. I put it down the disposal."

Sebastian stares at him—even for Mark's temper, this seems a bit odd. "You—shit, Mark, there was forty quid in there." Mark looks at him blankly, and Sebastian says "My wallet?"

"Oh," and Mark has clearly been a bit derailed. "No, that's—I don't know, Sebastian, it's somewhere. I was talking about the bug. I put it down the disposal and  _ I hope his ears bleed _ ."

He's working himself back up, color rising, and Sebastian feels like they are having two different conversations.

"Uh. Okay? I mean, I don't really care—"

Mark is apparently not going to let himself get distracted again. "And I found the  _ cameras _ , and they're all smashed up in the bin and I hope you're both  _ pleased _ with yourselves—"

He's getting pinker and pinker and Sebastian is sort of afraid he's going to start crying, his voice is getting higher and higher, this is going  _ so poorly _ and Seb just wanted his wallet back.

Mark is clearly expecting a fight, and Seb doesn't really understand why. Unless—god _ damn _ Jim. Jim and his stupid network and policies and Sebastian does not get paid enough for this.

"He didn't tell you about the cameras?" He has to interrupt Mark to say it.

"No one told me anything," Mark snaps, and this is going straight to shit.

"Mark, I swear, he said he told you—" Or he hadn't said he didn't, at least, but Sebastian doesn't really think it's important right now; Sebastian had asked, "All set on the monitors?" and Jim had rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, mother," and someday Seb would learn that Moriarty was never ever on the same page as him.

"Well, he didn't."

"It's a security thing, you're a liability, I wouldn't have—"

"A  _ liability?  _ You can fuck right off, Sebastian, I agreed to this stupid charade. If that wasn't enough for your precious security then you can damn well treat me like an adult and tell me—"

Sebastian is getting a headache.

"If you agreed to it, I don't see why you're being such a—"

"Finish that sentence," Mark hisses, eyes like Jim's, "I  _ dare _ you."

Sebastian snaps his mouth shut and for a moment they just glare at each other.

"I didn't  _ agree _ to being—being  _ watched _ like some idiot child who can't even be trusted to dress himself," Mark finally says, and his voice is ugly with pain. "I didn't  _ agree _ to give up every scrap of privacy I had, to let you  _ watch _ me—watch me—" his voice is actually breaking now and Sebastian is wildly unprepared to handle this.

"Shut up," he says, because Mark isn't even forming words anymore, too furious and—hurt, probably, and Seb  _ just wanted his wallet _ .

He pushes the door open, because this conversation has been in the hall for too long already, and Mark makes a furious noise.

Seb generally tries to be careful, he really does, because he's a lot bigger than Mark is—Mark is the same size as Jim, actually. But Seb is used to throwing Jim around; Jim can take a punch or a shove and come back with a knife, but Seb is not so sure that would be the case with Mark. Mark is… delicate. Different.

So he keeps his grip on Mark's shoulder firm but not too hard, and steers him down onto the couch. "Shut up," he repeats, and then, "look, just—I'm trying to get this straight, okay?"

Mark crosses his arms over his chest and throws himself back against the cushions, and Sebastian would have an easier time not thinking of him as very young if he weren't so inclined to pouting—which, again, he shares with Jim, but when Jim pouts it's generally a precursor to an earnest attempt to remove an at least mildly important part of Seb. When Mark pouts it's usually a precursor to an hour of sulking. Jesus. The two of them.

"So you know—okay, you know—look, what did Jim tell you?"

Mark just raises his eyebrows. After a pause he says, "I'm  _ shutting up _ , Sebastian."

Jesus  _ fucking _ Christ, Mark is actually twelve and if it were Jim Sebastian would have smacked him. But it isn't, he reminds himself, and grits his teeth.

When he doesn't get a reaction, Mark huffs a bit and says, "That I could be used as a hostage. That you pretending to take me out somehow makes it safer, which seems stupid—" Mark is smart but he has no head for these kinds of politics, and at least there's  _ some _ difference between him and Jim—"and that you were  _ under orders _ —" a hint of resentment there that Seb really does not have time to deal with—"to do whatever I said," and a flash of something else there, not over the resentment but around it. Seb is not good at reading people, but he's the best there is at reading Moriarty, and he finds that is more and more useful in reading Mark.

"So the only thing you didn't know about were the cameras?"

"And that you were  _ bugged _ ," snaps Mark, who apparently has been exposed to quite a bit of low-quality spy literature.

"But that's not on you, that's—"

"I  _ thought _ it was just you, okay? And clearly it wasn't, so  _ fine, _ haha, you and Jim can have a lovely conversation about how easy I am to manipulate," and he's standing up, motions jerky and crowding into Seb's space and this would be much easier if Seb was not suddenly overwhelmed with the memory of Jim whispering in his ear  _ you should hear the  _ noises _ he makes, Sebby _ —"and you can find your fucking wallet yourself, Sebastian—" and he is  _ much too close _ —"because I am  _ done _ , I am finished with your bullshit and your fake flirting and your  _ stupid green eyes _ —" too much. Sebastian reaches out and presses a hand over Mark's mouth, and he is suddenly much too warm and Mark's lips are cool and they are standing almost chest to chest.

Marks still looks furious, though, and affronted now as well; Seb can feel the Jim-familiar hiss of a snarl against his fingers. Mark twists his hand into the collar of Seb's shirt and yanks, throwing him just a little off balance, and while he is still raising his other hand to free himself Mark's other hand comes around and sucker-punches him in the rib, harder than he would have expected, and Mark looks too soft for the kind of muscle he'd need to pack this kind of force and  _ god _ but it's good. Sebastian bites off the noise he really wants to make, but apparently not quite successfully, because Mark's eyes flash triumph at him, lips twisting to bare teeth against Sebastian's palm. His hand comes up again and Sebastian is too slow, again, which is stupid because he  _ knows _ he is faster and stronger and he has a moment of feeling irrationally betrayed by his body. Jesus. He really is turning into Mark.

It's a louder noise, this time, and Seb's hand clenches just a bit over Mark's mouth. Mark clearly feels it and this is going to go really pear-shaped soon because Mark actually has no idea what he is doing to Sebastian and he's probably going to be really, really pissed, and even though he's the one getting bruises Seb has a wild moment of guilt over Taking Advantage and, shit, there he goes again, and Mark has not Consented to this— _ dammit.  _ He is trying to work out how to phrase "I really don't think that this is having the effect that you are going for, but feel free to keep trying" when Mark twists in a way that Sebastian should have seen coming—would have seen coming ten minutes ago if it were Jim, and wouldn't have ended up in this position with anyone else because he would have broken their jaw by now—and for a moment Seb can feel the line of Mark's body all along his, before Mark hooks a leg around his knee and knocks him down.

As far as Seb knew, Mark doesn't know how do this kind of thing—as he falls he has a moment to wonder whether it would be news to Jim as well, or if Jim knew and wanted to keep it a  _ surprise _ .

He hits the ground hard and tries to roll with it automatically, training taking over, but apparently Mark really is quicker than he thought. He's got one arm across Seb's throat, pressing hard enough to restrict but not cut off Seb's breath or crush cartilage, knees shoving his wrists into the hardwood floor. 

Seb fights the urge to—well, a number of things, actually, starting with the urge to use his legs as traction to try and flip them (with any momentum at all he thinks he could lift Mark even from this position, because he's a tiny fucker) because this isn't a bad enough situation he wants to risk a crushed windpipe, and ending with the urge to make that  _ stupid _ noise again and arch up to try and get more contact with Mark. He's holding himself high enough off Seb that he might as well not be straddling him at all, which is a fucking  _ waste. _

If Mark were just a little bit better an actor, then Seb would think Jim had been training him on exactly how to press Seb's buttons: the barely there contact and the wavering edge of threat that could turn any moment into real damage, not quite enough air, the bones of his wrists feeling swollen and fragile between the floor and Mark's bony knees, Mark's breath fast and hot on Seb's face. It shouldn't be so warm, Seb thinks, because Mark's lips—and this is not helping.

  
"Well?" Sebastian says, voice a little hoarse coming out of his throat, "you just going to sit there, or do you have some sort of plan?"

Mark shifts a bit, awkward, and Seb bites the inside of his lip. Not going to react. Not helping.

"I didn't really—it was sort of automatic," Mark says, and he actually sounds  _ apologetic _ now, and Sebastian is never, ever going to understand Mark Hooper. "Pinning you, I mean. The hitting was intentional and also, you started it. But I shouldn't have knocked you down—sorry, I'll get up, you can—"  He starts to move but pauses. "Wait," he says, "No, I'm still pissed at you." 

Seb grits his teeth."And this is helping?"

"Yes," Mark says decidedly, and settles his weight. Not helping."Yes, this is helping." He's definitely spent too much time around Jim. 

"Fine," Seb forces out, voice even, and he tells himself that any breathless note is because he still cannot draw a full breath and thus completely justified. "Then  _ what do you want _ ."

Mark eases up on Seb's throat, a bit, so he can breathe—but he doesn't take his arm away, or move his knees off of Seb's arms. Not putting his weight on Seb's neck means it has to go somewhere, and his knees are too awkwardly splayed to take the weight, and Seb isn't a doctor but he's got a practical working knowledge of nerve distribution. There are, all things considered, very few nerve endings in the human abdomen; his body seems to be rather gleefully focusing all of his attention on the sensation of Mark's arse pressed into him anyway, which Sebastian suspects may not be a particularly Respectful or Consenting thing to do. He'd manage to be more concerned if Mark didn't look triumphant and rumpled, and the smell of formaldehyde and clean laundry and a hint of sweat should not be this appealing.

"I want you to tell me," Mark says, and he doesn't sound angry or triumphant, anymore, just determined, "what Jim has  _ not. _ "

Sebastian stares at him. "Okay, one—if this is some sort of, I don't know, blackmail, you're shit at it, and two, you're going to need to put a cuppa on because we'll be here fucking hours—" 

Mark cuts him off with an exasperated noise.

"Not everything, I'm perfectly aware that there are things I probably don't  _ want _ to know—I mean everything he hasn't told me deliberately."

Sebastian just raises his eyebrows.

"Stop being thick on purpose, Sebastian, you know what I mean."

"I really don't."

Mark scowls down at him. "Fine. I can play this game." He settles back on his haunches—which Seb is totally capable of handling—ticking points off on his fingers. The movement lifts his arm off Seb's throat, and Seb considers for a moment flipping him just to prove a point. Later. He doesn't want to—there's no point in interrupting, Mark will just get shirty.

"First, I want to know exactly how long the  _ cameras _ have been here and how many of them there are. Second, I want to know who is watching them, and when. Third, I want to know  _ why _ they're here, and why no one  _ told _ me. I want to know why you're here if the cameras are, and what Jim told  _ you. _ And I want to know—" he stops and bites his lip, quick enough that it is clearly an unconscious gesture, and then glares at Sebastian, who hasn't even  _ said _ anything. "I want to know everything he's said to you, every time I saw you. And what was him and what was you."

"Can I at least get up? Or, I don't know, breathe _ ? _ "

"No." Mark's voice is flat. "And you can breathe. I'm a coroner, I know perfectly well how much weight you can support and you're fine."

"Your legs will cramp up."

"I'll manage." Mark smiles sweetly at Sebastian. "Now. Start talking."

"Look—fine. What was the first one."

"Cameras."

"Right. I don't know."

"What?"

"I don't know, okay? Jim has cameras fucking everywhere, I don't keep track. He probably had them put in six months ago when he started seeing you, it's the kind of thing he does."

"So you haven't—seen the video?"

"No. Doubt he's seen much of it, either—like I said, he's got a lot of cameras around. Probably 

only used them during—you know, when we."

Some of the tension goes out of Mark's body.

"Oh. So you didn't see—" he goes a bit pink. "Never mind."

"Not that I'm aware of," Seb says, amused.

"And he didn't see—?"

"Not that he mentioned to me."

"Oh, I'm sure he would have," mumbles Mark. "And you can wipe that look off your face," he snaps, straightening up again. "I'm not done."

"Didn't think you were, sweetheart." Seb can  _ feel _ the power balance shifting, thick as too-sweet tea, luxuriates in it. He rolls his shoulders, twists his arms, and Mark's knees hit the floor.

"Ow!"

"Whoops, sorry," he says, not even pretending, and props himself up on his elbows—Mark huffs a little in annoyance as his weight slides backwards. Seb's got about six inches of space before Mark—well. Seb's got fairly specific preferences and Mark has managed to hit most of them, and Jim's been winding him up for at least a month now, and if Mark slides much further back then they're going to be having a much different conversation. And Seb will be markedly less in control of that one, so he thinks he should probably try to avoid that.

Probably.

"So?"

"Fine. Why, then? What's the point of having cameras if he's not even going to watch them—and why didn't he  _ tell _ me?"

Sebastian shrugs. "Why not? He's Moriarty. He just likes knowing they're there. And telling you wouldn't have occurred to him, probably. He doesn't think like that."

"Well—that's  _ rude. _ " Mark snaps, and Seb laughs at him.

"Maybe if you ask nice he'll apologize."

"He had damn well better. And take them out."

Sebastian winces. "Ah. Well."

" _ What. _ "

"Don't get shirty with me, this isn't my fault. But. He'll take them out, sure, if you ask? But he's just going to put in more. Better hidden ones, probably."

"And, what, I'm just supposed to—accept that? Be okay with it?"

"Well. He's Jim. Maybe keep your pants on in the house—" he glances Mark over, quick and lavish—"or don't, no difference to me."

"You leave my pants out of this, Sebastian Moran!" Apparently when Mark is not being a twelve-year-old younger brother he turns into an elderly schoolteacher—he sounds outraged and slightly scandalized, and Seb has to bite down on what he really wants to say— _ I'll leave them out if you will _ —because that is not a helpful urge. Six inches, and the gap is shrinking. 

"Still don't see why it's me you're getting pissy with. I didn't put them in."

"But you  _ knew _ !"

"Assumed you did, too? Didn't think it was that important—he's already seen it all, from what I've heard."

Mark is decidedly pink by now, and for a moment it looks like he's going to hit Sebastian again. Which would be bad. Definitely.

"And what, exactly, have you  _ heard _ ?" he says, enunciating crisply.

Sebastian grins. "Oh, all sorts of things, sweetheart. But if you blush any harder you might just pass out."

Mark of course gets redder, which is really, really funny—and sort of endearing. Sebastian is a bit worried he's going soft, but on the other hand—well. Hardly.

"I'm glad you're  _ amused _ ," Mark snaps. "You still haven't answered all of my questions."

"Well, if you really want to know—"

"No!" Mark cuts off hastily. "I meant—what he was saying. In your earpiece, which you never bothered to tell me you were wearing."

Sebastian ignores the accusation. "The usual. What to do, mostly."

"What to say?"

"Sometimes."

"So it was all him, then."

Sebastian shrugs. He doesn't draw this kind of line between Jim and himself, doesn't think it matters whose intentions he's acting on, and doesn't know how to explain that to Mark so that he'll understand. But Mark is tensing, clearly getting ready to pull away. "You can't think of it like me and him and it's completely different. He tells me what to do. I do it. That's who I am."

"That's not—that's not an identity. You can't  _ just _ be Jim's man."

"Well, I am." Sebastian snaps. "You can deal with it or you can fuck off."

"I—"

"I do just fine, thanks, and I don't need some big-eyed Eton boy coming in and—"

"Okay, fine, you've made your point—"

"Treating me like shit just because I know who I am—"

"Sebastian!"

" _ What. _ "

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—you're right. It's not my business."

"Damn right it isn't."

"Okay. You and Jim are—you're right. It's fine."

He looks deflated, and Sebastian almost feels bad. But he's right. This is not Mark's business.

"Whatever you and the boss have, fine, that's nothing to do with me." Really, he tells himself. Nothing to do with him, regardless of any opinions the rest of his mind and body might have about that. "But what Jim and I have is nothing to do with  _ you _ , pretty boy."

"Pre—nevermind. I'm not trying to interfere, Seb."

"Don't. You wouldn't like the consequences."

"Sebastian, are you—are you  _ actually _ threatening me right now?"

"Not if I don't have to."

"Sebastian, I wiped the  _ floor _ with you. You went down like a—well. You lost."

"I wasn't expecting it, all right? You don't exactly look like you're about to go for the throat."

"So you're just sloppy, is what you're saying."

"Mark, in a fair fight I could have you down and begging for mercy so fast two days later you'd still be wondering why your arse hurt."

" _ Would _ you now," says Mark, delighted, and Seb really wishes he could rephrase that. He just rolls his eyes, and Mark is clearly pleased with himself. "So what you're saying is that—that was you, on the dates. As you as you get."

"Yeah," Sebastian says cautiously, because Mark is clearly doing some sort of mental calculation and he's not sure what it is.

"In that case," Mark murmurs, and his eyes go suddenly dark and hooded."I think we're all done here." He slides lower on Seb and presses down and Seb arches his back so hard and fast that his head cracks against the floor. Mark laughs down at him, just a touch breathless, and slips cool fingers behind his neck. "Careful, baby," he says and Seb could have  _ sworn _ he had control of this situation just a minute ago. He tries to say something but Mark presses down just a bit harder, shifts a little and makes a gasping noise. Seb swallows, hard, throat clicking dry, and tries again. 

"I—"

Mark's hand fists into his hair and  _ yanks _ , and Seb groans at the burn of it.

"Shut up," Mark hisses."Unless the next words out of your mouth are 'stop, I don't want to do this' or 'harder,' I don't want to hear it," and it is  _ so Mark _ and this might be a really bad idea but  _ Jesus _ the way he moves.

"Harder, then," he snarls and grabs Mark's hips and shoves them  _ down _ and at the same time pushes  _ up _ and Mark cries out, falls forward onto Seb's chest, rigid and warm and soft in a way that should not be possible.

"Fuck," Seb swears, and does it again, and Mark makes that gasping noise and uses his grip on Seb's hair to drag his head towards him. His lips aren't cool anymore, and when he sinks his teeth into Seb's lip Seb makes a noise that he is grateful to have muffled by Mark's mouth.

"Trousers," Mark mumbles into Seb's mouth, and then, "please, Seb, come  _ on, _ get them off," and Seb is trying to scrabble at his stupid buttons without dislodging Mark and cursing Jim's fondness for button flies. Only half are open before Mark is trying to drag the trousers off his thighs, and Seb makes an alarmed noise before a few more pop open and Mark can get them off without removing any parts of Seb.

Seb's pants aren't as thin as Jim's but he can still feel a hell of a lot more than through his trousers, and he grabs Mark by the shirt front to bring him back down to Seb's mouth—and Mark barely even flinches. He can feel Mark's heartbeat pounding straight through him, up through the neck and down his tongue and into Seb's throat, and he tries to remember if he is dizzy from lack of air or from the caramel-dark taste of Mark's mouth. Seb's shirt is half-off, though he doesn't remember when it happened, and Mark's nails are set hard in the muscle of his chest. He's rocking against him, inseam rough and just this side of too hard, and he's still making demanding little noises. Seb pulls back long enough to say "Will you—trousers, can you—" and he's trying to find a way to phrase  _ If I don't get any closer to you I might actually injure myself and if you can't it's fine but for the love of god please take off your trousers _ when Mark gasps "right" and rolls off him.

Seb would have a lot more objections if Mark-on-top-of-him wasn't replaced by Mark-taking-off-his-trousers and he doesn't know what class Mark and Jim have apparently both attended, but where he comes from people are supposed to look stupid fighting their way out of trousers. Breathing room. But apparently not in the land of small inexplicable dark-haired men. He waits—barely—until Mark has kicked off the last leg before pulling him back, mouthing over his neck, jaw, the feel of soft almost-stubble strange against his tongue. He tries to line Mark's hips up with his again but Mark pushes a hand against his chest, "Wait, Sebastian,  _ wait _ ," and Seb pulls back feeling like he is leaving his skin behind.

"Sorry, I—did I—"

"No! It's fine. I just want to—make sure," and Mark looks nervous and already well-fucked and with a great effort Seb focuses.

"Okay, yeah—sure of what?"

"That you want to—and that you know—"

Jesus  _ Christ _ but Seb wants to be past this. "It's fine, I told you, I already know you don't have a cock—"

And then Seb is cold all along his front and Mark is on his knees, pale and furious above him. 

"Ex _ cuse _ me?"

Ah. Fuck. "I meant—"

"I know  _ exactly _ what you  _ meant _ ," Mark snarls, and no one that short not wearing trousers should be able to loom, at least not enough to push that edge of fear sweet into Seb's gut, Jesus.

Seb's hands are above his head again and he flinches as Mark's knees make a harsh noise against the floor. This is—this is not what he was expecting, actually, and Mark is very, very close, or at least part of him is and he's pushing  _ closer _ , spine curved, pushing Seb's wrists against the floor as he hisses "If I don't have a  _ cock _ , Sebby, then it's going to be awfully hard for you to suck" and  _ Jesus fucking Christ _ he's right up against Seb's mouth and, oh. Fuck. Seb opens his mouth on a groan and Mark pushes against him, lets go of Seb's wrists to tangle one hand back in his hair and brace on the other and Seb reaches around to grasp Mark's hips and arse and pull him as close as he can, till he can feel the rounded bones pressing against him.

And it is  _ good, _ Mark already gasping above him again, and it's not what Seb's used to thinking of as a cock but it's hard in his mouth and he can work with this. He flattens his tongue against the cloth, already damp with Mark and his own breath, and makes a long slow motion up, and Mark sighs and wriggles against him, hand tugging his hair impatiently. He wraps his lips around Mark's cock the best he can through the pants and sucks, long and slow, and Mark  _ squeaks _ , hand slipping out from under his weight and it is only Seb's quick grab for Mark's arm that stops him falling.

"I wasn't  _ done _ ," Mark says, flushed and barely upright, and Seb bites back a laugh.

"Didn't say you were. But unless you've got a thicker skull than I thought, I think I should be on top."

Mark flushes and opens his mouth, and before he can say anything Sebastian twists around so that Mark is against the floor and he is on his arms above him. He kisses Mark's neck, pulls the collar of his shirt aside to tongue into the dip of his collarbone and strokes his sides with gentle reassuring touches when Mark tenses up. He places his mouth over the shirt, biting through the cloth, heading down Mark's body until he is slipping his tongue under the band of Mark's pants and Mark is squirming again, half on his elbows watching Sebastian. He slips his fingers under the elastic, glances a question up at Mark, and at Mark's hesitation jerks his hand back—but Mark grabs it before he can pull it away.

"No, Seb, it's fine, I just—I just want to make sure you want to. You don't have to. I'm sorry."

In answer Sebastian runs his free hand slow over Mark, fingers spread firm over Mark's thigh, thumb swiping from his arse up to the bulge of his cock, and Mark half-shuts his eyes and bites his lip.

"Can I take them off?"

"You haven't said yes," and Sebastian would be impressed with Mark's persistence and self-control if it weren't so bloody inconvenient.

"Yes, you fucker, I want to suck you off—"

"Then  _ yes _ ," Mark growls, and Seb is trying to pull his pants off while Mark pushes his head down and his hips up and then, Jesus, the  _ taste _ of him, and the slick warmth, and  _ this is not what Seb is used to _ . He has a moment of—not panic, quite, but disorientation, strangeness; the opposite of déjà vu. But he orients himself, some strange blend of what he knows about cocks and cunts and  _ then _ there's a moment of panic that Mark will pull away again—but it's in his head, this time, and Mark seems perfectly content, if a bit impatient, one leg wrapping over Seb's shoulder, curled around him and pushing into his back.

Sebastian was not expecting to be in this position tonight, but he's always been quick on his feet. He dips his head, presses his nose into Mark's hair and breathes gentle onto him. Mark hisses, impatient, and thumps an impatient foot against Seb's ribs, and Seb drops his jaw, shields his teeth with his lower lip—time enough for that later—and pulls Mark into his mouth.

Mark makes a soft noise above him, hips arching, and Sebastian slides his hands under Mark's arse to pull him closer, trying to find a rhythm to move with Mark's hips as he sucks. He pauses, taking a few breaths, and runs his tongue up the swell of him, Mark tensing so hard it's almost a flinch as he reaches the end and flicks his tongue, once, twice, a quick succession of strokes that Mark go loose and liquid against him again.

Seb slides his tongue down again, flattening it to cover as much of Mark as he can, and he might make a noise in reaction to Mark's. Maybe. But it's  _ justified _ , he thinks, sliding his tongue along the base of Mark's cock, circling it—he's been hard for what feels like hours even though he knows it's probably been less than one, and Jim has been winding him up all month—winding him up  _ about Mark, _ no less. About his hair and his quick temper and the little noises he makes—which Sebastian is actually finding for himself perfectly well—and his skin and what he looks like naked, and that part Seb still does not have quite first-hand knowledge but he sort of thinks he shouldn't push it. But Jesus does he want to, and for a long shuddering moment he screws his eyes shut and presses his mouth hard against Mark and the heel of his hand hard against his own cock—Mark naked like this, skin pebbled at the cold, nothing but skin under Seb's hands, cream and blood and the ratcheting slide of sweaty skin against the floor, and he has to yank his hand away before he embarrasses himself. For consolation he uses it to pull Mark's cock tight and thin against his pelvis, tongue not soft now but hard and darting.

Mark goes utterly still for a long moment when Seb moves his mouth lower, and Sebastian feels the muscle of Mark's thigh twitch against his face. He curls his fingers in reassurance against Mark's arse, petting his skin the best he can, and places his tongue flat against Mark's entrance, flexing it in a way he knows he cannot keep up for long—too out of practice, and isn't  _ that _ an odd thought—but pushing while he can, a slow ripple of movement that Mark shudders in echo of. Seb tilts his whole head up into Mark, fingers clenching, and slides his tongue up and over Mark's cock again, lips hard against the bones of Mark's pelvis, pushing just enough that Mark will feel that he has teeth—not the edge of them, but enough to know that they are there. Mark twists his hips, breath harsh, and Seb tries to follow him without breaking rhythm but it is too fast. 

He grips Mark's hips, white-knuckled, holds him still and sucks, not as hard as he can but close, runs his tongue over Mark's cock and takes a breath and then repeats it, again, and again. Mark is twitching against him and please,  _ please _ , let him be close, because Sebastian is rapidly losing control of not only his mouth but his cock, and then Mark pushes up into his mouth hard, almost-forgotten grip on his hair suddenly harsh and shoving him down and Sebastian is frantically trying to shield Mark from his teeth and to keep the pressure and Mark suddenly pulls him off and shoves his other hand between them, unsupported now but for Seb's hands.

Sebastian looks up to object but then he  _ sees _ him—rumpled shirt riding high on his stomach, eyes shut, throat tense around his almost-gasps and the tendons in his neck standing out, and it occurs to Sebastian that Mark would have his head thrown back if it weren't for the floor—and it is that image, Mark with his back arched and his head thrown back, on top of him, skin pressing against him slick and warm, taking his cock—it is that image that is flooding Seb's brain when Mark gasps, " _ There, now, please— _ " and shoves his head back down. Mark's fingers are wet on Sebastian's face and he closes his eyes and opens his mouth around Mark, and Mark pushes and Seb pushes back, once, twice, and then Mark is twitching against his tongue and wrenching at his hair. He is going to have bruises on his back from Mark's feet tomorrow, and he closes his eyes, and swallows, and Mark is making strangled little noises and shoving up against him, back trembling with his weight, and then he falls back. He is pulling on Sebastian's shirt, his hair, mumbling, "get  _ up  _ here, Sebastian, Jesus," and then his tongue is in Sebastian's mouth, body stretched full length and still trembling underneath him, hands stroking frantically over Seb's face, his neck, sliding up under his shirt and just the barest hint of nails.

Seb groans and grinds his hips down against Mark, who he really hopes he is not hurting but judging from the noises Mark is making it's fine, and Mark squirms under him—Jesus—so that they are thigh-to-thigh and Sebastian's pants were not made for this kind of abuse. Sebastian rolls so that Mark is on top of him, and Mark shifts so he is straddling Sebastian again, knees on either side of him, and this, at least, is familiar. Mark takes one of his hands off of Sebastian's back and reaches down—which explains why he had to move, the tiny thing—slips his hand into Seb's pants. Sebastian can feel the brush of his hand straight through his spine. He's not stroking it, just holding, and Sebastian growls in his throat and bucks his hips—but then Mark moves and now Sebastian knows what he was doing.

Mark holds his hand firm against Sebastian's cock, lifting it just a little and then  _ dragging _ himself over it, heat and warmth and never quite enough. Sebastian can feel Mark hard—again or still—against his own hardness and it's that same blend of familiar and strange.

He started off with a steady rhythm but he's begun to lose it, hips moving a little too fast on the end of every stroke, and as he finishes the next one Sebastian rolls his hips, experimentally.

Mark's head goes back and it's not quite what Sebastian had pictured but it's close enough, and he holds Mark to him hard, Mark's knuckles pressing into his stomach and Mark is clearly trying not to put too much pressure on Seb's cock, trying not to hurt him. Wrong. Sebastian shifts a bit for leverage and then pushes up, hard, so that Mark's hand closes tight around him for balance, eyes fluttering shut, and Sebastian reaches around and easily grabs both of Mark's wrists, pulls them to the front so that Mark is curled forward, and his hips shift to balance the new angle and it is a  _ good  _ change. Sebastian tugs the wrists, just enough to make Mark open his eyes and look at him, and asks, "Do you want me to do this?"

"Yes," Mark says, breathy, "_yes_" and Sebastian growls back, "Good," and flips them again. Mark is stretched under him, warm and damp as his breath, hands stretched above his head. Sebastian takes a moment to just look at him, the press of his body into the floor and the patterns of his veins, the curve of his tricep muscle pulled to a strain. Mark looks—peaceful, under him. Debauched, mouth slightly open and eyes half-lidded as he watches Sebastian watch him. His mouth is wet, still, from kissing Sebastian—from what Sebastian was doing before this—and he leans forward, stretching Mark just a little tighter between his hips and his hands, and licks his lip. Mark makes a slightly startled noise, and then a pleased one, tilting his head back to give Sebastian better access, and the thought _he would let me do anything_ _to him_ slips through Sebastian's brain, simple and slick as oil. He crushes it down, crushes his mouth over Mark's, pushes into him with his tongue, knowing it is just a bit too hard. 

He is trying to pull back, he really is, when Mark makes one of his small wordless cries into Seb's mouth and arches up against him, knees spread and feet not quite looped around his back, mouth falling open, and Seb is pushing against Mark, grinding down onto him in a way that should not feel good for either of them but  _ does _ and his tongue in Mark's mouth, sloppy and too much and too fast. Mark is taking breaths that sound like sobs under him, great gasping ones that Sebastian can feel his ribs stretch around even through the binder and he is going to try to pull back, give Mark some breathing space and take away his weight, when Mark grabs the back of his shirt and holds, legs shaking around him, and by the time Sebastian knows that Mark is coming he is as well. It is dizzying and brutal but he manages not to crush Mark against the floor under him. He sets his teeth against the muscle of Mark's neck and rides it, and rides it, and he is sweaty and shaking and spent after. They lie like that for a long moment, shirts and Seb's pants damp with sweat and other things, Seb reluctantly releasing Mark's neck from his teeth. He hasn't drawn blood—even he has to work for that—but there is an almost perfect dark red impression of his teeth, and Mark shivers while he licks it, mouth working gentle over the marks. He runs his hands through Sebastian's hair and there is a moment of almost perfect peace, and the phone rings into the silence.


End file.
